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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356240">those aren't pearls set in your gums</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemstonedragons/pseuds/gemstonedragons'>gemstonedragons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cultist Simulator (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cults, Epistolary, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Tragic Romance, gender-neutral pronouns for the BYT, male pronouns for the detective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:28:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,670</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemstonedragons/pseuds/gemstonedragons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>notes, letters, journals, and neat written reports, gathered up to chart the descent of Ilya Michaels into madness, and perhaps, their ascent into the Mansus</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bright Young Thing (Cultist Simulator)/ Detective (Cultist Simulator), Original Character/Original Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the good doctor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this has been sitting on my hard drive since the ghoul dlc dropped.<br/>title's from that tumblr post about the fox and the barb wire and the berries beyond the fence. <a href="https://filmnoirsbian.tumblr.com/post/187872311555/a-conversation-w-a-snared-fox-at-the-edge-of-the">this one</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A red leather-bound journal, somewhat worn at the edges, creased along the binding. A message inscribed on the inner cover is in a different hand than the rest:</p><p>
  <em>For my darling Zahra,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know how you work on your beautiful calligraphy, and I thought you ought to have a beautiful place to keep it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With love, D.</em>
  <em>M.</em>
</p><p>Underneath the message, someone has tucked in a tattered and faded cabinet card. The young man smiles, eyes shut, dimples showing in his cheeks. At his side a dark eyed young woman with a hooked nose proudly presents her diploma for the viewer. The date written on the corner of the image stretches back thirty-odd years.</p><p>/</p><p>Ilya Michaels, <em>the notes read</em>, such a terribly clever young thing. Wasting their brains on cards and polo and horse racing with the rest of the upper class. At least,<em> the doctor's handwriting says</em>, at least, they used to. It all fell apart when Ilya's Samson got poached by the Suppression Bureau. All of Ilya’s wastrel ways had to cease when their young man got involved with the occult cases. Samson came to them, worried, full of warnings, things they ought to avoid, places and people and names they mustn’t speak. He never wanted to work for the Bureau, Ilya told me later, but his father had pulled strings, had decided to make something of his son. The first few months- The first few months were fine, as Ilya poured theirself into planning the wedding, into making ready for their marriage, and Samson learned what lines to toe, who to beware, what pockets he’d have to line to keep himself safe.</p><p>Then he found out about Andrey, Ilya's father, my brother by marriage. Andrey was afflicted with worrisome dreams, the sort the Bureau disapproves of, you know. Sam wasn't aware of them, yet, of our old family secrets. Ilya hardly knew theirself. We never spoke of it at home, after my Dima disappeared. Sam thought he’d be safe, sticking to his rounds, visiting the institute, because it was mine. My hospital, my doctors, my office that he’d be snooping in. I wasn’t someone he feared, then. No more than any man fears his fiancé’s family, at least. But he followed his orders and came to the institute to check on things, and well, he found Andrey and I, discussing the dreams.</p><p>I didn’t know he was coming, hadn’t thought- He hadn’t been to dinner with us since the latest round of warnings and watchwords had gone out in the Bureau. We would’ve been more careful, used other words, had we known.</p><p>He left them, after that. Called off the wedding. Couldn't bear to report his love’s family. Ilya was inconsolable for months. Just as they finally found their footing again, Andrey got sick. He was dead by year's end. Ilya started dabbling in the Club, came home speaking of moths and smoke and reading their old Latin textbooks again.</p><p>And Samson came to me, then.</p><p>He'd heard about Andrey's death, and he worried for Ilya, but the poor boy was hardly in shape to help himself. His work for the Bureau haunted him, gave him the less worrisome sort of dreams, made his hands shake, that sort of thing.</p><p>I couldn't bear to tell him that Ilya had inherited their father's dreams, that he'd still have to report his love<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>I</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the full flush of youth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>...there is a long honored tradition, among all children, to snoop where you shouldn't, and especially in places you've been specifically barred entrance. This tradition's hold doesn't quite vanish with adulthood.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>An old mahogany desk stacked high with books and papers. It sits underneath a narrow window, looking out on the street below. The heavy furniture is dark, dreary, and the room is lit with gas lights. The beaded and embroidered tea gown hanging from the folding screen in the corner marks the room’s owner as young, though, despite the age of their belongings.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>A short note, scribbled on scrap butcher’s paper with charcoal pencil, tucked under a stack of textbooks, a coffee stain leaves a ring bisecting the words, as if the note was forgotten as soon as it was written:</i>
</p>
<p>When I was young, and Papa was away on business, Uncle Dmitri and Aunt Zahra would take charge of me. It was more Uncle's endeavor than Auntie's, given the rigors of her career, but I recall sitting in the parlor, Uncle's tarot deck spread out on the rug, as he taught me the meanings of each card. He’d promised to teach me other tricks, but Papa decided he ought to send me away to school by then, and afore long I was home on break, finding out that Uncle had disappeared. Aunt Zahra gave me the cards, but she refused to remove anything from his study, so I never learned palmistry or divination. A pity. It’d be a good way to make my fortunes, when I’m out with Sam.</p>
<p>
  <i>Another note, this time in ink on a sheet of stationary, embossed with a little sigil of a dove, and the initials DM in gold-leaf on the heading:</i>
</p>
<p>Uncle’s study is far more cluttered than it ever was when I was young. I ought to hurry, because Aunt Zahra is out, at the Institute today, and she prefers to leave the room untouched, even by the maid. But I had to write this down before I forgot, and well… Uncle did leave all this lovely stationery behind. I’m making note, so that I can track what I need.<br/>
He left his books on palmistry, on tarology, of course, but I think I’m beyond such foolishness now. No, I’m looking for his journal, or his notes. Auntie let slip that he’d been embroiled in some sort of research just prior to his disappearance. She said that it was probably his latest scheme for his work as a medium, and that he’d been spending a lot of time in the art galleries up town. She clammed up after that, refused to talk about it. I think she was going to cry- and well. Auntie hates crying. Thinks it’s dishonorable, or something, to be caught so out of control of her emotions. I don’t—<br/>
Right, I’m off track.<br/>
I found an admission ticket in the drawer, for a gallery. Might say Montmorrissy? It’s torn, like someone shoved it in a pocket too hastily. I— It’s twelve noon, and I promised Nance I’d meet with her for lunch. Time to go.</p>
<p>
  <i>At the end, written as if an afterthought:</i>
</p>
<p>It’s as if Auntie’s just waiting for Uncle to return from a long trip, and she’s promised to leave his study as he had it, keep us lot from meddling with his organization system.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. painter, painter, police inspector</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"I am an Inspector in the capital's police, charged with the investigation of the most vile and wretched things that one human does to another."<br/>"Of course, Detective Sloane, but that isn't what I asked."<br/>"Ask again, ma'am. I must've misheard."<br/>"I asked what you knew about Ilya Michaels, detective."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A rented room, furnished with drab colors, a battered secretary desk against the wall beside the door, a low, narrow bed against the far wall. The armoire in the corner is equally battered, hanging open to reveal a severe gray suit, and an empty hanger for a second set. Beside the armoire is an easel, propping up an unfinished portrait. The painter has only finished the eyes, staring dark and warm out from the canvas.</p><p>From the desk, a detective’s notebook, filled with crisp, tidy handwriting. Not the copperplate of an old-fashioned clerk, but serviceable enough. A stubby pencil is attached to the spine via a length of twine. Printed on the inner cover:</p><p>
  <em>Property of the Suppression Bureau.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Return to Detct. S. Sloane if found.</em>
</p><p>Halfway in, a page is bookmarked by a photograph. The miniature portrait is half-again the size of a postage stamp, featuring demure youth with a cloud of dark hair. On the reverse, the portrait is labeled, neat and tidy, with <em>Ilya, 1923. </em>The page it marks details notes run through with redactions, in some spots, the pen had pressed so heavy as to break clean through the paper. One of the few legible scraps of writing reads:</p><p>August 5<sup>th</sup>, 1923 -</p><p>OBJECTIVES:</p>
<ul>
<li>Meet with Dr. Michaels</li>
<li>[REDACTED] about the strange [REDACTED]from prior reports</li>
<li>Establish Routine Inspection days, [REDACTED] needs the calendar schedule for ‘surprise’ inspections in order to [REDACTED] the raid [REDACTED]</li>
<li>[REDACTED]</li>
<li>Don’t forget to make reservations at the [REDACTED] for Ilya’s birthday dinner next week.</li>
<li>Ask Zahra her advice about the wedding planning. Mother’s sent another letter wanting to know how it’s progressing. Ilya’s been at their wit’s end, and Zahra might know best how to help them. Goodness knows Mr. Michaels doesn’t- my acquaintances in the regular police informed me that he was caught gambling again. I mustn't tell Ilya, though. They needn't worry about their father's habits right now. I'll see if Zahra will speak with him.  </li>
</ul><p>NOTE(S):</p>
<ul>
<li>I found something at the Institute. Overheard Dr. Michaels discussing a patient's dreams- something about wells and woods, and a house without walls. Possible lead?
<ul>
<li>Asked about it, she played off like she'd no clue what I was talking about- Why? </li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>Looked into former patient #58---- by name of [REDACTED]: No evidence, despite the notoriety. </li>
<li>[REDACTED] </li>
</ul><p> </p><p>And at the bottom of the page, a second entry:</p><p> </p><p>August 13<sup>th</sup>, 1923</p><p>     NOTE(S):</p>
<ul>
<li>My lead fell through. Not enough evidence for follow up.</li>
<li>[REDACTED]</li>
<li>I must update my records. Report my — Report my sudden lack of fiancé.</li>
</ul>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. the good doctor II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Do you fear death, Doctor?"<br/>"No. Should I?"<br/>"Most people do, I think."<br/>"Ah, but the flies come for all of us, Miss Yates. Doctors and laborers and reporters alike."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Another entry in the red leather journal</em>:</p>
<p>Ilya is making a name for themself in the Dancer's circuit now, and their young man is fading fast. He's desperate to forget about his work for the Bureau, but he can't give it up without something to save him.</p>
<p>Save— that's not the right word. Samson Sloane might think he'd been saved, but there's a terror, a loss, a sacrifice. He needs something to catch him, to draw him into the web. Samson’s taken up painting again, he tells me. I don't know what draws him back here, other than his reports for the Bureau. –</p>
<p>That’s a lie. Samson visits because of the Bureau, yes, but I know why he speaks to me. He cares for Ilya still. He hopes that I'll have news for him. Poor boy. Ilya doesn't know that he visits, otherwise I think they'd stop speaking to me. Ilya's never been one for grudges, but they're changing, now. They've become strange, like they don't fit within their skin.</p>
<p>Oh, <em>Ilushya,</em> what have you gotten yourself into. What will become of you and your Sam? The house is no place for lovers. This much I know.  This much my Dmitri told me, so long ago.</p>
<p>/</p>
<p>Andrey never confided as deeply in me as Ilya does, and I worry that I'll let something slip, but the only bureau agent that comes to my office anymore is Samson. He brought me a painting, this time. A little landscape of a forest, white birch and the blue of twilight on the leaves.</p>
<p>It unnerves me. But perhaps Ilya will appreciate it when they come for tea tomorrow. They still like art, even though they keep stopping in the parlor, expecting to see their Sam at his easel. I think that’s why they’ve announced their plans to go rent rooms with that old friend from school- <em>Nancy Something-or-other.</em> They can't bear the heartbreak of living in what was their inheritance, their family home, when the only family that remains is the two of us.</p>
<p>Mr. Sloane's been a boon to my work, if not my nerves. He’s decorated, that detective. The bureau respects him, a bit. Vigilant, meticulous, they call him. It worries me- will he chose his duty or his loyalty? But if he hasn’t found anything for them, then they won’t look too much into how he knows me. They won’t investigate Ilya either, hopefully. They know that Sam left his fiancé, but Sam’s never told them much more than that.</p>
<p>. . . I worry for the poor boy, more than I worry for Ilya. Ilya has some beast living under their skin, a vulture, a jackal. Something patient and clever and good at surviving. Samson is…<em>softer…</em> than my Ilya. It made a good match, once. It makes him a poor rival for them now, if that is what the Bureau intends to do.</p>
<p>/</p>
<p>
  <em>A shaky-handed entry in the doctor’s red journal, written late one night, in the flicker of the gas lights.</em>
</p>
<p>My Dmitri’s spirit seems to lurk in the corners of my room, and I worry that his family’s dreams have skipped over our marriage bed and will sink into my skull. Ilya no longer speaks of them to me, and I fear they’ve stopped dreaming of the simple things. Of wells and woods and streets strange by moonlight. I fear they’ve begun dreaming deeper, dreaming of the house without walls. They’re so like my Dima, and I recognize the hunger they wear now, I remember my love wearing it too. His grew, and he grew stranger, his hunger more, and more—</p>
<p>Dima had the dreams, then Andrey, and now Ilya. I fear… I fear that I am next, because they’ve run out of Michaels’ to torment with visions of the Mansus. If my worries are correct, they’ll come for me, and when my time is done, they’ll seek out Samson, and he too will fall. That's the cost of loving this family.</p>
<p>It’s a boon that they’ve already lost their Samson, I suppose. They can’t leave him to wallow in their disappearance like my Dmitri left me.</p>
<p>Oh, Zahra, what will you do? What <strong>can</strong> you do? Your husband is lost, your brother-in-law lost, his child is half gone, and soon, soon, you’ll follow. You know you will.</p>
<p>Already the Mansus whispers its poetry to me, murmuring the words of my far away kin, and maybe Sam will be clever enough to outlive us, outlive the dreams, the whispers. But I… I am weak. It borrows my Dmitri’s voice, borrows the heat and smells of those early days, when that sweet young man first came to me, asking for tutoring in Arabic, and I was too smitten by his earnestness to see that he was already reading Illopoly’s work then. Perhaps there is a room in the Mansus where the sounds of Cairo and the sounds of my love’s stumbling words, blend with the hush of the medical school’s lecture halls. A room in the house without walls, flooded with memory. Oh, how I yearn for those days. Things were simpler when I was young. Only love and learning and the warm winds of home. Not now. Now its only dreams and whispers and loss --</p>
<p>
  <em>This entry ends with a splatter of ink, and the smudges of what might be tears.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. burying the lede</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"What is it that you do for a living, Ms. Yates?"<br/>"I'm a reporter, for the capitol news."<br/>"Do you worry about the Suppression Bureau?"<br/>"No."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>A reporter’s notebook, covered in small, cryptic shorthand. Tucked inside is a letter addressed to one </em><strong>Millicent J. Yates</strong>.<em> The letter inside is neatly typewritten, stamped with the letterhead of Glover &amp; Glover Clerical Offices. It reads as follows:</em></p>
<p>
  <strong>Ms. Yates, </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>To whom it may concern:</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>The offices of Glover &amp; Glover regret to inform you that it is against company policy to share private information about the staff. If you wish to enlist the actual services of our company, contact one of our clerks. Any further enquiries about Mx. Michaels will be disregarded.</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Regards,</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Mr. Alden</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Senior Clerk and Supervisor of Records</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Another Letter tucked into the reporter’s notebook:</em>
</p>
<p>Madam Reporter,</p>
<p>You must know that I don’t have the answers you seek. Neither the Gaiety nor the Ecdysis Club keep track of the names of guests, nor does it demand our staff to expose their private lives to our scrutiny. If you are truly so interested in one of our dancers, I recommend trying to get their attentions in a more traditional manner- we don’t ask for the personal details of our dancers and patrons. If this ‘Ilya Michaels’ you’re asking after is one of our staff, then they won’t be opposed to your company, so long as you can pay.</p>
<p>S. Amavasya</p>
<p>Owner of the Ecdysis Club</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>A Telegraph: </em>
</p>
<p><strong>ATTN:</strong> M. J. Yates</p>
<p>Found information on Michaels Family <strong>STOP</strong> found coroner’s reports <strong>STOP</strong> mother influenza 1905 father alcoholism 1921 <strong>STOP</strong> Uncle missing 1918 – Not dead?<strong> STOP</strong> Aunt Alive doctor at Institute <strong>STOP</strong> Letter to follow E.C. <strong>STOP</strong></p>
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